Writer’s block has never happened to me. I have so many stories in my head, so many people talking to me, so much research finished and never written about, so many places visited that call out for their own story, that books flow out of me. But, and this is huge for a writer trying to keep up with letting my readers know what I’m up to, what I think, or want, or had happen to me, I’m blocked on writing blogs about half the time.
It’s because the story will begin and end in a page or two, and that never satisfies me. Imagine
if you built ships and someone came along and said, you have to make an oar once a week; or you put doors on cars in an assembly line and once a week you had to only polish the handle on that door, you couldn’t place it on the car and see how beautiful it looked; or you ran an upscale restaurant and once a week you had to sell hotdogs on the corner of the street. Get the picture?
See what I’m getting at. It’s not easy. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy talking to my readers and my fellow writers. One on one, face to face, usually once a week with my writer friends I can turn loose and discuss stuff that only other writers really dig. Every time I show up at a book signing or speak somewhere, I get to interact with my readers and writers I may not know. Lots of fun.
But here I sit, wondering if you would like to read about how I’m the contest chair for a writer’s conference and am sorting through stacks of entries, recording, placing them in the proper category, making sure they’ve followed directions, which about 25% of them don’t. Okay, what else did I do or think about this week?
I visited with my lovely daughter, sorted a box of tomatoes, made some phone calls to straighten out the messes some companies manage to make of their records, listened to
chapters of an audio book, Let There Be Light by James Lee Burke, started reading Raylan by Elmore Leonard. And I wrote.
Let’s face it, I’ll never win any awards for my blogging efforts, but yet I keep at it. Something interesting might occur to me.
As for worldly stuff, you know what? I have become an isolationist. If I began to worry about Iran and Afghanistan and the horrors going on there, if I listened to all the idiots who claim to know more about running our country than our president, but never come up with solutions, then I wouldn’t be able to write because of the horrid jumble going on in my mind. And there are only three things I love and couldn’t live without. Family, Friends and Writing.
So, don’t ask me who’s doing what in Washington, or overseas or anyplace else. I’m a dunce where that is concerned. If you want to know anything about what I’m thinking, ask me something about the book I’m writing, or the one being published, or the one dancing around in my brain, and I’ll talk as long as you can stand it. And did you know, I’m soon to become a great grandmother again, so you can ask me about my family too. It’s a boy, due Thanksgiving week.
Perhaps I should write my blogs about the characters in my books, the situations, the history or mystery or love story. What do you think, readers?